Minimalist Magpie

This weekend, I had a low-key holiday party on the books. YEA!

Except it was hosted by people I didn’t know, and I am a social caterpillar. BOO!

I figured the odds were good that people would be in jeans and fleece. Especially as it’s been exceptionally frigid here lately. Since I’ve been swaddled in layers and blankets when home, though, I felt that celebrating the moments of my life sans Bunyanwear would make for a nice change. As would showing a little skin. And by “a little skin” I mean possible wrist exposure. To be jolly and all.

So I decided to bust out my one fancypants skirt (a ruched black satin pencil) then dig into my recovering-blackaholic’s closet for black tights, black sweater, and black boots. An easy out, sure, but when nerves get to rustlin’ a somber monochromatic look soothes me, rather like thumbsucking did back in the day. The FAR day.

But.

I had a little playfulness up my black-clad sleeve. A pair of completely over-the-top earrings I had spotted at a favorite vintage shop and moth’d my way toward. Earrings I’d initially discarded as way, way too extreme and non-serious for me. And yet…they appealed, as just about anything iridescent appeals to me. And the colors suited.

Eventually my $22 and I were parted, and the earrings came home with me. Once home they sat in an open-faced box–the better to admire them!–for 4 months. At which point I finagled the screwbacks onto my lobes and took them out for a spin amongst strangers.

Be still my heart

Where they glittered like wee holiday lights against my hair (worn down for warmth) and shawl (worn sporadically as temperatures waxed and waned).

Earrings in motion

The strangers turned out to include super-welcoming, dressed-down women who raved about the earrings. And a VERY friendly dog who liked my skirt so much he spent much of the night quite literally drooling over it. [Which may be why all the women who knew of the dog's existence showed up in jeans: no need to hit the dry cleaners post-festivities.]

While I used to do a damn good job of keeping my inner magpie baked in a pie, I’m starting to make up for lost time. Pre-intervention, I would have hesitated to have let my Joan Collins Extra-Extra-Lite out for fear of calling too much attention to myself. Which is pretty rich coming from someone as loud and vulgar as I am. Maybe “because I was afraid of seeming frivolous” works better, even if sounds less Beth March and more super-stupid?

At any rate, I’d like to say my earrings owe their new life to my reading of Style Statement: Live By Your Own Design and arriving at a Style Statement, “a two-word compass that helps you make more confident choices in life–from your wardrobe to your relationships, your living room to your career plans.” Unfortunately, I don’t do workbooks, even workbooks the authors present as:

a series of inquiries that lead readers to the personal words that guide the spirit, look and feel of their life. The first word represents your foundation, your 80%. The second word, your 20%, is what motivates and distinguishes you.”

It’s just way too much effort for someone who hates blank pages as much as I do.

But since I have a few invisipals who really liked the book’s exercises, I’d venture it’s worth a look at the actual or Cliff Notes version. After all, using the latter helped me arrive at “Minimalist Magpie,” so clearly one’s Style Statement can work as a great enabling tool. I’m not saying that’s why I tucked “Contrarian Classicist” away in my back pocket, of course. But if it WAS the reason, who can blame a magpie for being a little opportunistic?

Capelet Kismet

Let me be as clear as Eliza Doolittle post-ole ‘enry ‘iggins: I did not go looking for my capelet. It came looking for me.

Having only just ventured away from my Flat Stanley knits and toward a pile of purple fluff, I was still leery of texture. And added bulk.

So when my pal Ms Madeline asked me if I thought she could carry off a vintage coral sweater–a beaded, sleeveless crewneck–I innocently clicked the link she sent concerning said textile. It’s not my fault that a little pale blue capelet was hanging around the vicinity looking adorable, now was it?

I even took the selfless route when I emailed her back to say that she, being possessed of an athletically-inclined bosom, would probably rock the coral. Yup, I noted that the OH GREAT SCOTT JUST LIKE BABY CHICKS, BUT BLUE number was a safer bet for fit and would be just as lovely with her coloring.

So imagine my surprise when I found out she’d bought it not for herself, but as a belated 40th birthday gift for me. Since I failed to show up in France and all, thus thwarting her original gift-giving plans.

Heartbreak aside, I’d have to say a crazy-fabulous $25 Made in Italy knit is a damn good consolation prize for Not Vacationing in France. In fact, I now think EVERYONE needs a capelet just because the word itself is so fantastic. Especially people who did NOT buy vintage coral sweaters because they caught themselves thinking, “Now why the HELL did I ask Vix’s opinion on style?!”

In an homage to one of my favorite 50s pairings and my closet’s neutral-heavy innards, I put my captivating capelet with head-to-toe espresso and swanned off to work. [Though the shade does look black in my crap photos.]

I mean of course it’s not the piece to wear if you’re trying to be all “Hi, I’m a corporate shark and I smell your blood in my water” but if you want to keep your fins warm on the weekend? Problem solved. Then again, Frank Perdue DID say, “It takes a tough man to make a tender chicken” so perhaps one could extrapolate.

Whatever you do, don’t run off and have a clandestine, capelet’d affair unless you’ve checked on fabric content: mohair sheds.

ADDENDUM

Confused about what constitutes a capelet? Here’s my extremely biased opinion.

Capelets, Of Course

Classic Americana. No sleeves. Coverage stops around the elbows.

Happiness reigns.

[If we ignore that pesky, institutionalized sexism and racism, anyway!]

Setting a Good Example: Vintage and Modern Capelets

A vibrant flat knit capelet plus a gorgeous, gossamer grey variation.

Again: No sleeves. Coverage stops around the elbows (if elbows are present).

A Spendy Capelet And Some Dubious “Capelet” Friends

Left: a savings-sucking $1900 capelet (minaPoe for CoutureLab).

Center, Kiki de Montparnasse. Right, 2005 Alexander McQueen.

Not really capelets. But not really non-capelets. OMG: CAPELET FUSION

Things Marketed as Capelets That Just Ain’t

Capelets do not have sleeves. Period amen.

Vicarious Vacationry

Admittedly, it was totally insane and uncharacteristically extravagant of me to say “hell yes!” when my friends proposed going to the South of France just 6 months after my mid-life crisis/40th birthday vacation. Seeing as how that trip took 99% of my non-allocated-for-bills money and all. But THIS European trip was to celebrate one friend’s milestone birthday and another’s graduation; given my whole post-40 carpe diem thing, I figured I could just about justify going.

As long as I didn’t spend a dime on the house or my caboose before the trip. Or food.

But of course my oui oui oui all the way far from home answer was before my ancient computer slipped into a coma and one of my income sources dried up. And also before I realized that plane fares from the West Coast would refuse to get with the “we’re in an economic crisis, enjoy our fire-sale prices” program and actually RISE vs drop. So eventually  I had to face reality, cast one last glance at photos of the darling little Avignon apartment I’d planned to plop in for a week, and tell my pals that I would not be the trois in their menage.

They took it very well, and I took it not well at all. But then I’m someone who nowadays sees NO POINT in working if I can’t spend on things that bring me joy. It’s not very evolved of me, I know.

Luckily, they agreed to share their trip with me in semi-real-time ways by writing online epistles from the aforementioned little Avignon apartment. Unluckily, I was only thinking of my pal Madeline’s passion for photography and history, NOT her passion for gastronomical delights. Which means that in addition to learning quite a lot about the various towns she and my other friend toured, I also had near-daily photos of pastries accompanied by prose such as:

For dessert I had a chilled ganache that was sprinkled with pecans and rolled in a tortilla, sliced into medallions and served with creme anglaise and whipped cream.  L. had some profiteroles.

….

“L’s dessert was definitely the more visually compelling.  She had three scoops of house-made ice cream: gingerbread, Calisson and banana flambee, which were accented with a little kumquat and a slice of star fruit.  It was lovely.  Mine looked a little like breakfast cereal, but it was wonderful:  chocolate raviolis in a white chocolate sauce with flambeed banana ice cream served on the side.”

Friends for almost 30 years, and I never knew she was such a sadist.

It was tough, but I kept reading. All about how they needed me–the 3rd lightweight–to help them finish bottles of excellent wine. About how my tie-breaking skills were missed when arguments about gelato flavors (in France?!) flared. About the thrice-daily tears they shed over my absence. [Okay, one of those was more of a reading-between-the-lines thing.]

Yes, it was tough, but I loved hearing how excited they were about all they were absorbing and ingesting. And I really did learn a lot about desserts and architecture. So thanks, Ms M!

…Ms Madeline has offered up some coloriffic South of France photos so that those of us with open hearts and closed wallets can enjoy some vicarious pleasures…

...grabbed with a camera phone after the 2 adventurers had a particularly decadent, enjoy-our-truth-in-advertising dinner...

Sporty Spicing it up [pt 3]

Earlier, I described my reluctant resolution to step away from my closet’s natural Fall/Winter habitat–aging wool separates and ho-hum knits in black, brown, and grey–and toward more chipper horizons. With two new items of color creating sweet intertonal music with my well-worn neutrals, I’d made real strides. I had incandescent stripes, I had can’t-miss-me pattern. But with dresses made of funeral bunting a key ‘09 trend, I also had temptation. Relapse was in the wind.

Every so often, I realize a certain genre in my progeria-inclined wardrobe needs to be taken VERY firmly in hand. Last summer, it was sandals; this fall, items of the vaguely-defined “nice casual” or “casual chic” variety.

With an Ultra-Relaxed Fit work environment on my horizon, I had serious closet concerns.

While I could fake looking mellow in summer with a few 2-for-1 Ts, my always-limited cold-weather casual options were now faded, stretched out of shape, and/or scarred from various messy labors. After having paid virtually no attention to what I wore on the weekends–or just gotten more cost per wearing out of staid work duds–how could I be faced with such a crisis?!

Clearly the time had come for me to go all Hans Brinker on the problem, even if it meant enlisting a few extra digits.

With the need vast and the Update Fund less than robust, VaderWear updates would have to wait. For mental health and variety, it seemed best to parse out the pennies on “real” color. So much for my chance to spray paint my 11-year old car and roll with Jay-Z’s crew:

Get y’all fatigues on / All black everything / Black cards, black cars

All black everything”

FINE GO WITHOUT ME

But here was Suzy Menkes, reassuring–and terrifying–me about being swaddled in color:

Woolly, hairy or feather light, autumn knits have one thing in common: They cover the body like falling leaves. Softly, softly is the story, whether a sweater is filmy and vaporous or a cardigan dense with cable stitching….

“Colors are other-worldly, off-tones that might give to a winter woolly an eerie glow. Sour-apple green, an angry-wound pink or russet too bright to be rustic are just some of the unexpected colors on this new palette.”

In theory, that sounded captivating. And I’m sure sky-high whippets benefit from vats of Fisherman’s Ribs tossed over THEIR sternums. But the rest of us have to be all yellow alert. Or else.

From whatthehelldidyoumake.wordpress.com

Unfortunately for goal-oriented shoppers such as my-new-and-possibly-improved-self, a significant chunk of creative directors at Big Mid-Priced Retail Establishments apparently prepped for plummeting temperatures by getting drunk on highballs and watching Mad Men featurettes. Most anything warm and in color had a neckline up to my ears. And often a TIE.

Though to be excruciatingly fair, another (goddamn lazy) subset got busy churning out those heterosexual-privileging, rarely-flattering “boyfriend cardigans” from the 80s. But with inferior fabrics.

And of course Anthropologie did their thing–bless their hearts–but I’m afraid that involved offerings with 60% more bulk and/or associated geegaws than I could handle.

Basically, nothing I tried seemed like something in which I should leave the house. Until I saw this, anyway:

Having already thrown down for the recovering wall treatment known as Ole Stripey and the exuberantly patterned, descendant-of-Multiples cardiwrap, I had an epic question before me: was a pile of purple fluff worthy of being Fall/Winter Update #3?

And if “yes,” would I be channeling one of my idols?

Not that that’s a bad thing.

In fact, while it’s fun to play with contrasting and tonal underlayers (what, I’m gonna throw a black bra under it and call it good?)

and the color does make me look as if I sleep 10 or so hours a night, I’m ever-so-mildly sad it’s not green. Next time, Oscar, next time.

Ringside at Fizz’s Genie/Bottle bust-out [pt 4]

Before she could arrive on the other side of her major wardrobe overhaul, Ms Fizz had to confront her self-titled PLAN TO FAIL shopping strategy, address her frustration with fit/find/flatter challenges, and do battle with her foaminess-flattening forces.

Thanks to the sometimes-conflicting body shape experts mentioned earlier in this sprawling tale, Ms Fizz and I set off on our multiple shopping excursions with a pretty good idea of what shapes would best flatter her busty, height-challenged, H/Rectangle shape.

Unfortunately for us, however, Fizz has never had any professional color-typing done. Given her blue eyes and peaches-and-cream complexion, I suggested she turn her wardrobe into the love child of Tom Wolfe and the Blue Man Group, but nooooooo…she wanted to venture farther afield.

Actually she wanted to venture WAY afield into the ubiquitous bright reds and purples that have marked many a ”Pantone Fall.” No question, the shades in question would have been fine for accessories or below-the-waist items, and who doesn’t love a cheerful red during a long grey winter?

Since we’d agreed to the “Glow or No?” method of assessing face-friendly colors, however, I dared her to look me in the eye and and tell me jellybean red and popsicle purple made her look like a dewy-eyed faun. Luckily the coral sweater she’d picked out (on her own, GO FIZZ) called her bluff.

In the end, we arrived at a non-scary core palette that mixed her existing browns and blacks with deep blues and cool greys. When worn together, the core shades create a fairly toned-down look. To counterpoint the core’s more somber colors, though, she also chose some make-your-presence-known items in zippy shades.

And should she be overtaken by the urge for extra-frisky ensembles? What then?!! No worries, man–she just has to facilitate a little accent-to-accent afternoon (or evening) delight.

Fizz’s Fall/Winter 09 Color Palette

Top: Core colors – Bottom: Accent colors

All Fizz’s delightful new duds cried out to be immortalized. So, using my legendary powers of persuasion and probably the smallest dab of eau de Guilt Trip, I convinced her to let me document some of the key pieces and colors snuggling up to her now-sparkling self.

Given the Dickensian lead-up, it feels a bit anti-climactic to post the results of her time, effort, and money: relatively simple styles that, with one or two exceptions, aren’t particularly connected to must-have trends.

But then that’s the point. Because unlike the almost-70 Lily, Fizz doesn’t feel the need to be plugged in to every trend on the street (let alone to wear them all at once). She didn’t close herself off to options when we were out looking, but she stayed focused on her goals.

Fizz’s Wardrobe-Update Requirements

• Skew “PNW urban casual,” feminine, fun, versatile, flattering
• Include some double-duty dress up/dress down pieces
• Keep skirts right below knee to downplay knee/calf transition zone
• Shape torso area: draw attention from stomach area; create/emphasize waist; define bust
• Elongate neck and legs

...neither Von Unwerth nor Meisel were available to shoot Ms Fizz, so she had me showing up at her door (repeatedly)…

Vix, I worry I won’t be able to sleep without seeing a breakdown of Ms Fizz’s closet. Tell me all, or at least what you remember!”

CORE: DEEP BLUES

Midnight Blue heavyweight jersey dress :: Bright Navy velvet blazer :: Medium denim wrap skirt with peacock ribbon trim :: Navy V-necked, long-sleeved T :: Lapis V-necked, long-sleeved, vertically-ruffled, ruched T :: Twilight cotton camisole :: Navy/ivory cotton blouse :: Ink thinwale trouser-cut cords [not pictured] :: Bright Navy fabulous new everyday bra [neither worn nor pictured]

[existing items] Dark denim pencil with red contrast stitching :: Bright Navy cotton cardigan  :: Medium- and dark-wash bootcut jeans

CORE: DARK BROWNS

Espresso cord blazer :: Dark brown deep V, double-weight jersey top :: Brown/black patterned knit skirt :: Medium brown, knee-high stacked-heel boots

[existing items] Medium brown layering shell :: Dark brown cotton sateen faux-wrap blouse :: Dark brown cotton cardigan

CORE: BLACK

Black knee-high, stacked-heel pull-on boots

[existing items] Black deep V faux-wrap top :: Black flat-heeled knee-high boots :: Black cotton cardigan :: Black wool-blend trumpet skirt :: Black deep V cotton sweater :: Black satin A-line skirt :: Black velvet blazer

CORE: GREYS

Slate silk blouse with horizontal ruffle detailing :: Medium grey, V-necked long-sleeved T :: Medium grey surplice/ruched jersey sweater [not pictured] :: Grey/Navy diagonal stripe T [not pictured]

[existing] Medium grey camisole :: Grey/navy/brown/ochre sleeveless ruched top :: Grey wool-blend pants

ACCENTS: ALL

Coral tissue merino deep-V, twist-front/ruched cardigan :: Bright olive A-line thinwale cord skirt :: Foxglove pink cotton cardigan :: Medium teal V-necked, long-sleeved, vertically-ruffled, ruched T :: Teal cotton camisole :: Periwinkle merino cardigan with jewel buttons [not pictured] :: Purple/pink patterned, scoop neck knit top [not pictured]

[existing] Pink/Grey confetti long-sleeve T :: Assorted colorful camisoles

Ringside at Fizz’s Genie/Bottle bust-out [pt 3]

Earlier, I described how Ms Fizz and I purged her closet; I then shared the technical and logistical challenges she felt impaired her efforts to be more stylish. Now it was time to dig a little deeper.

Like many people or perhaps just me, my friend Ms Fizz looked at her clothing in aggregate one day and realized her method of event- or desperate-need-based shopping had given her a pretty useless closet. The majority of her so-called wardrobe either didn’t fit, didn’t flatter, or didn’t reflect who she was or how she lived.

So she decided to change. She wasn’t looking to be a head-turning fashion plate or an object of desire; she just wanted to look like she thought about style a bit. And color. Because it’s never a bad thing to go a little Pleasantville on one’s closet, as long as one avoids tossing in random shades of non-black willy and nilly.

Bring on the color!

As we immersed ourselves further into Operation Overhaul, I could tell that Fizz had thought through ALL the factors that contributed to her style stagnation. Despite being one of those tantalizingly private types, she selflessly agreed to go public with her shopping skeletons.

Q: Aside from fit and logistical issues, were there any other barriers that brought your closet to this really sad place that does not at all reflect your fabulously-extroverted, very generous, mega-sparkly personality?”

A: “Being driven by the cheapness factor didn’t help; despite being lucky enough to have some savings to spend on clothes, my default is “Why buy 1 expensive top when I can get 3 cheaper things?” I don’t necessarily buy 3 cheaper things, of course–or if I do I don’t buy the things that would really help update my closet.”

Interior demons discussed? Check. Now for the external influences. I knew Fizz had worked in some pantyhose-n-heels places in the past as well as a setting she describes as “no shirt, no shoes, no problem.” [No, not a strip club: a start-up.]

The latter was hardly a place of style inspiration, but what about her most recent job? Oh right–she was part of an organization with a dress code I’d have to label as “Aggressively Casual.” Less Hiking to the Latte Bar mellow, more I Could Kick Your Ass Without Messing Up My Look. With some Just Rolled Out of Bed, You Wanna Make Something Of It? subsets.

Q: If you were a tree in your workplace, what kind of tree would you be? Talk to me about cultural expectations.”

A: “There are places that don’t really care about the larger social signals clothing can send, and I know some people like that.

“But for me, the downside of working in those types of environments is that they don’t support or encourage doing more than basic self-care. People either don’t use clothing for personal expression or they dial their efforts way back so they fit into the overall culture.

“I’m realizing that I have a tendency to subconsciously absorb what others are doing, then incorporate it into my style or behavior. Between my co-workers and living in a very casual city, my wardrobe went into a death spiral without my really noticing it.

“I mean I didn’t give up entirely, I was trying…but I guess whatever I bought didn’t make enough of a difference.”

As I’d met Fizz for a Reunion Recap and seen her positively strutting down the street in her simple post-alteration cotton separates, I knew SHE knew how it felt to be a bit…intentional…about her visual presentation. And being both frugal and luckier than many these days, she had a nice little nest egg to spend on herself and on the economy.

In my completely unqualified eye she was ready, willing, and able to handle the massive amounts of shopping and relentless partial nudity that accompany a major wardrobe overhaul.

I, on the other hand, was in danger. Having spent most (okay, all) of my Fall/Winter update money, I’d have to violate my Mae Westian nature and actually RESIST temptation as I tromped around helping Ms Fizz find gorgeous things for her gorgeous self. Who knew that spending other people’s money could be so tough?

Next: Part 4 of Ringside at Fizz’s Genie/Bottle bust-out, aka Pictorial Payoff

Ringside at Fizz’s Genie/Bottle bust-out [pt 2]

In an earlier post, I discussed how Ms Fizz asked me to provide moral support and brutal honesty as she examined the innards of her wayward closet.

Unfortunately for Ms Fizz, I love nothing more than bossing people around–sure beats working!—but have no one in my life to boss. By the time she’d finished trying on EVERYTHING I SAID EVERYTHING she had to wear, we realized that her choices were “move to nudist colony,” “continue to dress like Lady Chatterley’s lover,” or “shop for cool-weather clothes.”

Seriously, even a tiny-wardrobed European (that mythical creature) would be hard-pressed to live with what made the cut. I mean yes, some woman can rock a black satin skirt on a near-daily basis; once it lost a few inches off the hem it was definitely a keeper, no doubt. But it and the few other stragglers weren’t doing much for Ms Fizz’s closet gestalt.

Just to clarify, this purge was not a “OMG those jeans are so last season you can’t possibly be seen in them!!!!!” type of undertaking. This was a salvage operation, and we knew we might come up with little worth saving; after all, only 4 or so years had passed since I’d surveyed my own closet and found a raft of poorly-constructed items, a predominance of unflattering shapes, a sea of black, and, to prove my open-mindedness, some token “cheerful” tops in colors and/or patterns that didn’t suit.

I had already walked a mile in her tatty moccasins, and knew changing the status quo was a real resource-suck. With that in mind, I figured a little positive reinforcement couldn’t hurt.

Q: Remember when I had my wardrobe intervention? Your closet is in much better shape than mine was then. For one thing, you don’t have hand-me-downs that look crappy on you…and instead of JUST black, you have a fair amount of one of your best neutrals, brown.

More importantly, you’ve got at least a handful of flattering, highly-flexible items. How did THAT happen?”

A: “Anything that’s in the ‘keep’ pile was bought last year after watching Tim Gunn and deciding to make a conscious effort to buy for shape, quality, AND flattering color. Which is why there’s not much staying!”

So: a near-empty closet and piles of donation- or dumpster-bound clothes all around. Freeing? Overwhelming? Some of each, please? I decided I’d better offer that shoulder.

Q: Let’s cut you some slack. You’re a petite, your sister’s a petite, your mom is a plus-petite–fit is an extra challenge for all of you, right?”

A: “My mom has it worse as a plus-petite, but yes–if I want to look remotely this century, there are only a couple of lines I can buy from. Assuming you can even find a Petites Department, it’s rare for one to inspire you to up your game–even if you’re 90, they’ll send you screaming back to jeans, sweatshirts, and T shirts.

“Which, coincidentally, is what I wore all through high school and college.

“But then so did everyone else my age, because my town only had one place to buy clothes!”

I will say that I know a fair number of invisipals who manage to look damn good despite having only have one place to shop. Of course they are often cheating on their town with eBay or online retailers, which may explain it. And often they are just a hell of a lot more creative and patient, which I SUPPOSE could also explain it.

Assuming one leaves budget out of it for a minute, though, Ms Fizz and I have a plethora of local shopping options–high-end consignment, resale shops, major chains, vintage-only temples, boutiques. So why is dressing like Ms Average Pulled-Together Adult Woman (give or take a few stylistic flourishes) so difficult for us?

Q: Are we just really bad at this? Compared to other people, we have so many places to shop around here–I can’t believe I have to order basics online and/or get stuff altered. Sometimes I think fondly of the days when I didn’t spend any time, effort, or money on clothes and just aspired to look like I didn’t get dressed in the dark. The dark of someone else’s closet.”

A: “Well, sure, technically I have choices. But I’ve complained about the Petites issue, and I admit I don’t like shopping online. And you know what? Some of the local boutiques seem to specialize in unreasonable fabrics and unforgiving fits.

“Plus while makeover shows have helped a lot, I still don’t know all that much about dressing my body, especially since it’s NOT the body I had 20 years ago. Or 5 years ago, since how something looks can change even if you stay same weight or size. I’ve done too tight AND too loose, so apparently I’m still learning how to do the downplay/highlight thing.”

All that context was useful before we started shopping, but there was something I had to know. I mean granted I was FREQUENTLY wearing paint-stained yoga pants to the grocery store several years ago, but back then it seemed to me like Fizz dressed pretty well: womanly, casual-but-chic, fun.

She hadn’t gone through the whole pregnancy/post-partum thing that can throw a lot of women for a loop, so what the hell had happened to her?

Next: Part 3 of Ringside at Fizz’s Genie/Bottle bust-out, aka getting our Oprah on

Ringside at Fizz’s Genie/Bottle bust-out [pt 1]

Having been part of Ms Fizz’s process during her relatively last-minute, fairly desperate hunt for items she could wear to her 20th high school reunion, I was understandably stoked that she was buoyed by the results. And also thrilled that she and all her former classmates made it through the swamp soirée portion of the weekend without dying from heat exhaustion. So when she called a few weeks ago and gasped, “CLOSET PURGE HELL…4 years overdue…come?” I arrived full of stamina and ruthlessness.

After all, hadn’t I just been through my own closet audit, an audit that saw many a delusion dashed despite my transformation into a fairly brutal, thrice-yearly weeder-outer?

Clearly, she needed a friend who could offer both a shoulder on which to cry and a familiarity with Tim Gunn, Trinny & Susannah, Stacy & Clinton, and Lloyd Boston. Of course I’m actually a friend with the above qualifications as well as a slight obsession with one of the most inclusive of the body-type advisors, Mr Bradley “The Science of Sexy” Bayou.

Though sadly I lack access to the aforementioned cable TV makeover shows, I’ve gleaned enough from the internet to know we needed to work as a team. I would ask incisive answers, she would supply heartfelt answers. So I jumped in:

Q: How would you describe your current shopping strategy and your wardrobe management system?”

A: “PLAN TO FAIL.”

Okay, scratch the heartfelt.

When I arrived, she’d thankfully sorted out her definite donate-or-dump items. Hours later, with the “maybes” assessed and recategorized, one thing was clear: we were seeing the price one paid for living an E Fashion Emergency lifestyle, and that price was imminent bare-assedness.

We both knew that unless she started shopping–preferably in a purposeful manner–she’d need to nab her curtains and some duct tape and channel a certain literary heroine. Or any number of reality TV contestants.

I exaggerate the situation. Slightly.

Next: Part 2 of Ringside at Fizz’s Genie/Bottle bust-out, aka closet autopsying R us

Relatable

Like many others families, the Vix Household has had QUITE a year. And by “quite” I mean way, way too many big tricks overshadowing delicious treats. In the spirit of the holiday and the proverbial picture/1000 word we’re talking:

But then as Mark Knopfler wrote and Mary Chapin Carpenter so cheerily sings:

When you’re rippin’ and you’re ridin’
And you’re coming on strong
You start slippin’ and slidin’
And it all goes wrong because

Sometimes you’re the windshield
Sometimes you’re the bug”

Damn GPS.

…oh I’m lazy enough to lust for a cruise-control life, but I guess there’s something to be said for constant course correction…

(Astoria Halloween streetscape)

Segmentation

The typical, torrential rains we’ve had the last month have helped convince my semi-reluctant daytripper love that hello, I WAS RIGHT about making hay–ok, lollygagging–while the sun shines.

As two of my favorite PNW spots are Astoria and Hood River, away we went on separate weekends. I’m not the Oregon Tourist Bureau so I won’t extoll each area’s many virtues, but I will say Astoria’s nicknamed “Little San Francisco” for a reason and Hood River makes windsurfers from around the world cry with joy.

[Though more importantly from my perspective, Hood River is one of the country's best wine- and fruit-producing regions. Obligatory add-on: Beer, too.]

Both towns are hanging in there in spite of recession woes, and it was great to see new hospitals and playgrounds and community organizations in the mix. But along with infrastructural goodness, I saw people milling around farmer’s markets and ordering a morsel or two in cafés and doing the best they could to keep local businesses alive without going under themselves.

And I admit, the progress and activity made me a little misty-eyed. For a thousand tiny reasons that build upon each other until they create a reason that’s so simple, strong, and pure that it becomes an antidote to all the bad news, all the sad news, all the news that’s not fit to print but is out there anyway.

…I’d love more Big Joy in life right now, but I think the eyedropper method of finding and bringing happiness is worth exploring…

(top to bottom: Hood River clock’s geometric delights; HR’s Full Sail Brewery brings industrial chic to the historic town; HR climbers get a helping hand; an open-weave sweater meets a few of HR’s showy leavesHR’s newish outdoor playzone has postcard views; clouds capture Astoria Column; Astoria’s Columbia River sentries)

Sporty Spicing it up [pt 2]

In an earlier post, I discussed how wearing prison stripes during my formative years left me with a stripe fetish and how I happily boosted my current wardrobe of aging neutrals by swathing my torso in a striped wall treatment. A wall treatment/sweater that I’m calling “patterned” even though that descriptor is not shared by all.

Between the lack of color and the lack of pattern in my increasingly decrepit fall/winter wardrobe, I knew my clothing and I were headed down a non-exotically-colored dirt road to Dullsville. And that my path would not be altered by choosing textured neutrals, no matter how much a black velvet blazer might TRY to convince me it held the answer to my plain-Jane fabric problems.

But with no room for budgetary mistakes, how to choose the soft goods equivalent of the Yellow Brick Road? How to pick a statement-y sweater and not end up with That Print, the purchase that sits in one’s drawer or closet and makes one wince whenever it peeks out?

Slowly or boldly, or slowly then boldly. But preferably armed with a bit of knowledge from Bridgette Raes or Imogen Lamport’s blog.

Education on visual matters, aside, though, I think love plays a strong role in pattern-choosing. I maintain that one must fall for a print (or stripe, okay?) from across the proverbial crowded room. In the tiny section of my heart that beats to a romantically-inclined drum, I believe one must long to take a pattern home and immediately introduce it to members of one’s preferred wardrobe items, be they pants or skirts or jackets or dresses. [Or, if one's a clothing polywollydoodler, all of the above.]

But that’s just my .02. I eased into things with ole Stripey, because Stripey was my type.

YES I HAVE A TYPE

Others gravitate towards certain colors or scales in prints, and while I judge that to be a MARVELOUS starting place, I’m usually impervious to such sensory cues. Now I tend to be all Artemis the Unconquerable around patterns in general, true, but ever since the fabric that ended up as my 40th birthday dress (aka The Dress of 1000 Nipples) something’s happened.

I, the woman for whom “Back in Black” is an anthem not an observation…I…I am now a sucker for prints in rosy pinks. I even contemplated a one-night dalliance with some unapologetically vivid pink poppies (and ok maybe the roses, too).

So I suppose that more or less explains how I catapulted into desire for this VERY exuberant pattern when I encountered it as a wrap dress:

Unfortunately, standard wrap dresses create a block-with-a-belt look on me. And anyway I needed a sweater-y thing more than a dress. Sure, the shop had a few yards of leftover fabric, and I could see if the customizing queens could make me something to serve as my Fall/Winter Wardrobe Update #2.

But would I be exchanging cash for plaintive questions on the drive home?

To test my adoration, I took some time to ponder how a creature made from the above might fit into my closet. I looked at my sea of browns and my dark denim, and I tried to visualize myself wearing something that said HEY I’M OVER HERE! IN THE ROSY PINK! YA CAN’T MISS ME!

Such thoughts were a bit nerve-wracking, but then again I had managed to wear the aforementioned Dress of 1000 Nipples quite a few times without dying from pattern/color overdose. Hmmmmmm.

And then again redux I had been thinking that a variation or knockoff of the DKNY Cosy Sweater could be nice. Especially as I never got to buy any spendy Multiples (Units) as a middle-schooler, which has apparently left me with loads of curiosity about wearing tube tops as skirts and so on.

So I took the plunge, then had to figure out what to do with the damn thing:

No, I can’t do as many tricks with my Missoni PseudoCozy* as the DKNY Cozy converts can do with theirs. Partially because mine’s pretty loosely based on the original recipe cozy, and partially because I’m just not that limber. But I can (quickly) style it enough ways to soothe my inner, Multiples-deprived child.

And really, sometimes that’s all a closet needs: something with enough cheesiness to earn a smile, enough practicality to suit, and enough oomph to make a difference.

* Unlike Stripey’s origins as a pillow drape, I think my demi-sheer Missoni beauty was officially turned into spendy caftans and bikinis.

Hat[box] trick

Luckily for my budget I lack the shoe fetish gene. And aside from jewelry I am not a big accessories person. So it’s a bit odd that I have such a perplexing amount of affection for the couple of little run-around-town purses I have. I spent most of last spring and summer glued to my violently orange bag:

Hey, carrying this has made it super-easy for people to spot me!

But now that Halloween is near, I feel compelled to swap my Love Canal Pumpkin purse for this wacky wallet-carrier:

I like my purses the way I like my men: old and ropey. I kid, I kid...I judge all on a case-by-case basis.

How much do I wish I could blow MY lid like this?

Speaking from a purely objective, form-based perspective, the hatbox influence makes my bag cuter than any bug in a rug ever thought of being. True, the lid edge has a small crack and a few dings; overall, however, it’s in much better shape than I am.

In fact, when I was getting my most recent pair of emergency glasses–the ones I rarely wear because I only love OTHER people in glasses–the fit expert admired my bag and told me she used to deal with high-end purses. Then she told me that I should take very, very good care of my little $35 vintage find.

THANKS LADY, NO PRESSURE THERE!

In terms of function, though, my corded charmer’s major downside is that it requires me to travel light. Which, given my chronic neck and shoulder issues, is also its major upside. Because no lie, this bag is Miss Jean Brodie strict and it won’t abide a hoarder. If you try to stuff, you’ll get guff.

Stacked

Despite its status as the Grass Seed Capital of the World, my hamster-on-a-wheel immune system and I spent a small chunk of the weekend in the Willamette Valley. Mr Vix agreed to join me, but not without voicing his misgivings about a) my lack of trip planning and b) his current skepticism about the value of voyages that involve “driving someplace, turning around, then driving back.”

As my lack of advance preparation left a great deal of room for spontaneous pie- and scone-ordering opportunities, however, he may have reconnected with the joy of Just Because.

If not, well, I’m happy to share some of my merriment. I can’t say I have plenty to go around, but I will say I’m not afraid to prospect for more.

…1 day trip, 0 expectations, many jolts of happiness–maybe some day I’ll grasp that the process influences the outcome…

(top to bottom: containers in Corvallis; roadway rooms beckon travelers; Salem’s Slab soaps; along Albany’s circa 1887 Flinn Block; Corvallis’ town-wide trash can design; Albany’s Pix Theater, which began life as a livery stable)

Ode to Ethel

I know there are women in the 40+ range who would sooner be trashed via Twitter than wear anything other than “good jewelry.” Fortunately, though, I am not one of them. For one thing, I like vibrantly-colored necklaces you can see from at least 6 feet away, and since Liz Taylor keeps sending her castoffs to that undeserving strumpet Christie I have to Make Do.

For another, I wear way, way too many tailored neutrals and thus really enjoy getting a little play that funky music white girl with my accessories now and again.

As a means to that end, post-post-intervention I started buying (and even better receiving) necklaces with chunky, semi-precious stones. Ok YES: the type of jewelry that I’ve heard dismissed as only for Upper West Side therapists or Chico’s mannequins. Given my past wardrobe and remaining Bea Arthuresque tendencies, trust me: I’m okay with channeling Meryl Streep in Prime versus channeling Meryl as SHE channels Anna “A&W Root Beer” Wintour.

Intriguingly, however, the doodad that’s my #1 Guaranteed Compliment-Getter since I bought it last spring is this plastic dahlia:

And that just cracks me up. I mean my prickly pink delight isn’t even FANCY vintage plastic like Lucite or Bakelite, nor can I squirt water from its center.

Despite its limitations, however, I’ve had this hunk of apparently-fantastic plastic cooed over when sporting it with suit jackets, sweaters, and Ts. Surely it must have something to do with the resemblance to vintage bathing caps?

Or maybe it’s a collective, subconscious love of The Graduate?

Since I hate umbrellas and feel like a horse when I wear a hood, perhaps I need to take a cue from my darling dahlia and pizzazzify my rainwear. There are enough retro-style caps here and here to bedeck the masses, so I’ve got time to mull over my options. Plastic flowers, on the other hand, don’t just grow on trees.

Cursing a blue streak

Lackadaisical as I am, as a blogger I do strive for a nano-sized measure of quality control. Immediately after I post, I log out of Flickr and WordPress to doublecheck that everything I want to show SHOWS. Because who the hell wants to look at a bunch of broken links, right?

But for some reason, Flickr SEEMINGLY randomly-and-without-user-error has a need to turn some of my photo permissions private. Then change the image ID/url of those photos. Which in laywoman’s terms means: BROKEN UNPRETTY POSTS.

I’ll email support to make sure it’s not on my end; I mean hey, I try not to mix editing and crack but who’s to say I’m not a multi-tasker? Right now, though, I’m flashing on the way my old boss’ father-in-law, a Louisiana native, once summed up his relationship with a colleague: “I wouldn’t trust that guy in a shithouse with a muzzle.”

Now THAT’S colorful.

Sporty Spicing it up [pt 1]

Despite being a recovering pattern-a-phobic, I have always had a major stripe fetish. Be they vertical or horizontal, stripes make me happy to be alive. In fact, about the only thing my distressing junior high years had going for them was a gym uniform reminiscent of this look:

So technically I should find it comforting that the creative team at Levi’s Vintage Clothing shares my prison stripe love. They’re aping mug shots in some of their ads, I’ve got a hallway with mug shots…they’ve produced a line that incorporates new notions about which kind of stripes flatter a woman’s body, I’m sorely tempted to buy said items.

We should all be in one happy fan club, and yet I’m still not sure if I should be doing a Goooooooo GW Junior High alum cheer right now or hypocritically tsk-tsking their rather tasteless Fall/Winter design direction:

Levi's Vintage: "Inside/Out" campaign for Fall/Winter 09

And it’s not as if skinny stripes come with fewer ethical conundrums.

Sure, Breton stripes, originally modeled by oodles of French sailors, seem drama-free compared to their prison-yard siblings. But the look’s most famous fans include Hemingway, Picasso, and Bardot–hot messes, the lot of ‘em. I mean who wants to risk channeling THEM when wearing a jaunty striped top?

So thank god there’s Gene Kelly. And no, he wasn’t expressing his personal style when he donned his Breton: he was in costume. I don’t care. In fact, I almost don’t NOTICE he’s wearing stripes given that the film’s costume designer popped him into lusciously tight white trousers. [Mr Kelly humbly labeled his various Anchors Aweigh ensembles among "the greatest dance outfits ever conceived," and I can't say I feel much inclined to argue.]

Physique-enhancing qualities aside, his striped top SELLS The Worry Song. With lyrics like the below, there’s a reason his dress blues had to go AWOL:

if you worry / if you worry / if you bother your head

if won’t help you / it won’t help you / it will hurt you instead

grouchers, groaners, cranks, and moaners / they’re so unfair

if you can’t be gay and merry / lock yourself in solitary”

Having laid the groundwork for my bona fide devotion, then, why the HELL has it been 10 years since I owned stripes, preferably saucily-saturated ones? Especially given my closet’s relatively small and depressingly bland collection of non-black, -brown, or grey items?

I can’t explain my lapse, but now that the first of my Non-Extended Dance Version Fall/Winter Closet Updates has arrived I am be-striped once more. Assuming one is broad-minded about what constitutes a stripe, anyway.

In addition to choosing some horizontal goodness that incorporates intriguing texture and a bit of sheen, I’ve gone decidedly technicolor:

Yes, it was love at first sight for me and this Missoni space dye fabric when I spotted it at a local shop; I knew I had to have a sweater made from it. [About the only way I'll own anything connected to Missoni.]

I had no doubt that Stripey’s brazen colors would play nicely with my increasingly-decrepit, ho-hum browns and denims and deep dark purples (and my hot pink tweed, should I be willing to Go There). See?

In fact, I was admiring all the colors in it when Mr Vix said:

It’s nice, but it kind of reminds me of that upholstery sample I liked and you vetoed as ‘too rug-like.’”

WELL I NEVER

O WAIT

Missoni Home 2007

You know what? I don’t care if my bosom is bedecked in a wall treatment. Because the second I put on those stripes, I’m humming The Worry Song. I’m thinking maybe I’ll try a few dozen fouettés en tournant. I’m psychotically optimistic I’d make a great sailor. Because with stripes, just about anything seems possible.

Next: Part 2 of Sporty Spicing it up, aka pattern-a-go-go

I bet Sally Field doesn’t run with scissors

Struggler at Struggling to be Stylish kindly passed along a blogger-to-blogger award:

Problem is, in accepting the award one is supposed to fulfill various requirements. Requirements I will, depending on how lax one’s point of view is, either bend or ignore. That probably disqualifies me from receiving future awards of this type, huh?

I swear I considered recusing myself from sticking ole Honest Scrap on this vehicle, but I find the icon graphically-pleasing and kind of enjoy seeing it here.

Poor Struggler, choosing a lame and oppositionally-defiant duck as an awardee!

10 Honest Things About Myself (in Addition to What’s Above):

1. I grew up on murder mysteries and 70s-era novels about suburban infidelity. In retrospect, 5th grade may have been a little young to start reading the latter.

2. Approximately twice a year, I’m a morning person.

3. I’m rarely an early adopter…and after 10+ years of online forums, I haven’t really transitioned into being a blog reader. Partially because my old computer crashed when I visited all the pretty, image-heavy ones. But I’m getting there.

4. I live in a modest 1905 fixer, and after years of fixing–or avoiding fixing–I’m burnt out on decor and yard stuff. Which is bad because there’s a LOT more to do!

[Ironically, We Now Interrupt This Post so that I can go stand on the roof and hold the Silent Paint Remover, which enables Mr Vix's window-scraping.]

~ returning ~

5. See #3 and #4 above, then check out the decor-and-more-related blogs of 3 very talented women I have “known” for years via online forums:

• Linda at Lime in the Coconut
• Lisa at Small Space Style
• Decor8or at Serendipity

(I’m probably missing a few bloggers from this group that I actually mean to include, but hopefully they’ll let me know!)

6. I find Facebook completely overwhelming and tend to avoid it. Also I think the interface is uglier than a tarantula’s butt. YEAH I SAID IT

7. Per my profile, I am getting more shallow as I age, not less shallow.

8. I can neither whistle nor blow bubbles with gum; this horrifies my grandmother. [Who tried and failed to teach me how to do both.] By the way, I’m sorely tempted to add a VULGAR postscript to this but won’t.

9. I have a “thing” about tagging people for stuff and can’t do it. Yes, I know it’s crazy and a tagee probably wouldn’t think I was imposing. But. Anyway: think about visiting Struggler and those bloggers above. And the ones on my sidebar. Especially Bingo, since she is on hiatus BUT SHOULDN’T BE.

10. Related to #9: Lists like these paralyze me and I can never think of a damn thing to say that’s remotely interesting. For an admitted narcissist, that’s a real heartstring-puller.

Vocation

As I hit the age where people stop automatically using “untimely demise” to describe one’s death, I’m still working on getting a Venn diagram where “something at which I excel” overlaps with “something about which I feel passionate” and creates a ménage à trois with “something financially feasible.”

Because while I’ve had jobs I liked well enough and I’ve had jobs that made moonshine seem like an appealing breakfast treat, I’ve never actually been in love with a profession.

I’M NOT A FLITTERBEGIBBIT, I’M JUST DRAWN THAT WAY

So I exhale green-tinged sighs when I meet people who have always known PRECISELY what they wanted to do for a living. Though potentially a frying pan/fire situation, I immediately want to exchange souls with them. And–lest I be accused of age discrimination–I’m also ready to swap with anyone who discovered his or her calling later in life.

Clearly I’d be better off if I were the type of person who could cheat on a ho-hum job with exciting, fulfilling hobbies. Then I wouldn’t need to be in love with what I do for hours and hours of my day, dammit. But as Mr Vix likes to remind me when I’m in the throes of existential despair:

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.”

While I look for my niche, I’ll continue to be intrigued by where people work, how they work, and why they work. And to be selectively fascinated by what their labors produce. Because sometimes we make our own destiny, and sometimes our destiny just manifests.

…it’s a big world out there, and each corner seems full of ways to create, repair, maintain, and evolve…

(clockwise from left: Torcello’s wild abandon holds traces of its 20,000 former inhabitants; an upper terrace at Fortuny’s palazzo/studio-turned-museum (see an official shot of Fortuny’s library); contemplation during cobblestone repair; a Missoni colorway holds echoes of Italy; workers pass a former monastery; family and fishing boats rest while laundry dries)

Prolific

Unlike the ice cream truck that’s currently bombarding my neighborhood with Christmas tunes, our local U-pick farms are keeping it seasonal.

Since yesterday’s weather was spectacular and as I am one of those annoying city dwellers who finds rural areas super-charming, Mr Vix and I headed off to see what was blooming and ripening around us.

Along with potatoes and more colorful produce, there were dahlias and zinnias a-plenty. And who can resist a stack of empty buckets and a pile of garden shears?

…sadly, despite my annual pledge to buy lots more local food (and eat less chicken) I have a long way to go…

(top to bottom: PNW pumpkins; fall’s zinnias and dahlias await harvesting; roosters and chickens roam their farm; U-pick’d flowers brighten the Vix Household’s dining room)

Flashy

I woke up one day last winter and realized that, apart from a short family-based trip, I hadn’t left the U.S. in 20 years. I’m still not sure how I let that happen; granted, I have a tendency to sleepwalk through my life when I’m not making fairly substantial changes but REALLY.

While financially it was not a great time for me to travel farther than the corner market, I was determined to celebrate my 40th by going somewhere I’d always wanted to see, someplace crumbling and splendid, bustling and languid, illusory and workaday.

Someplace as contradictory as I was feeling.

So I started making plans, and once Mr Vix got on board, we even decided to squeeze in a little second-city stop-off on the way home. Though of course I would have loved to roam even longer.

…my trip made me as happy as a raisin in a rum cake, and today’s a day I need to revisit the smaller moments that made me smile…

(top to bottom: Mr Vix wandering in Venice; Amsterdam carnival vendor; a midnight vap rider brightens the Venetian scene; Amsterdam window display; strutting it Amsterdam style; old meets new on an Amsterdam canal bank; a central city carnival flashes against Amsterdam’s grey sky; Murano factory sign; orange bag huddle on the Riva degli Schiavoni; memento from G. Nason’s studio)